


hand-me-downs

by weefaol



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 20:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13842576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weefaol/pseuds/weefaol
Summary: This is the story of a Zeppelin tee, bought in 1977, passed down from father to sons, washed one-hundred and twenty times, stitched up and stretched out, loved and worn forever.





	hand-me-downs

**Author's Note:**

> Featured in [Seasons: A Supernatural Fan Fiction Anthology](http://spnshortstories.tumblr.com). Thank you to the lovely [danischmannni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danischmannni/pseuds/danischmannni) for the beta read and an even bigger thank you to [babybrotherdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean) for creating this amazing project.

When I was born, there were ten thousand screams sewn into me.

He met me in St. Louis, a four hour drive from Lawrence. Woven together at the Missouri stop of Led Zeppelin’s final American tour, amidst the slash of guitar, the electric pulse of bass and drums, the tapestry of bodies pressed together.

April 15, 1977.

Five bucks and a tug at my sleeve and I was John’s, bright and colourful and clean. Worn right away and pulled off again at the Silver Creek Inn off the I-70, where John and Mary smoked haze and slept together, basking in the afterglow of “Kashmir” and “Immigrant Song.” Dazed and confused and a whole lotta love.

I was his favourite shirt that spring. John was twenty-three. And he kept me warm, tucked close to his chest, for a decade after.

He wore me in the yard, cutting grass with a beer in his hand. Wore me on the honeymoon, road-tripping from Nashville to El Paso. In the mechanic shop, axel grease and sweaty brows after tinkering with engines. And when Mary got pregnant, she wore me too, stretched tight over her belly, full of life and little kicks.

Dean was born with green eyes and a good heart. Two days old in John’s arms and his tiny fingers clutched my fabric, squeezed me tight.

I was loved anew.

~~~

I was there when John found out. Mary’s secret past — the demons, the monsters, the hunt. As the marriage strained, so did my stitches. But when Sam came along, John held him close too.

He spit up on my shoulder.

~~~

I was there when she died.

When the warm equatorial air met the northern frost. The perfect storm. Alcohol and anger in its wake.

Two years of twelve-gauge grief. Of sleeping days and hunting nights, stinking of blood and monster meat. Of patchwork maps, kids shivering under crocheted quilts, different linens every night. Roadhouses and truck stops. On the fringe. Haunted by yellow eyes.

Sometimes when John holds me to his nose and breathes in deep, he can still smell smoke and sulphur. Once the stain of death’s in you, it’s hard to scrub it out.

~~~

My happiest day was one April afternoon, that first ray of sunshine, when the air thickens and the clouds feel like they could burst. When tulips bloom and worms brave the sidewalk. When John showed Dean the proper way to clean a carburetor. To talk his way around a ’67 Chevy. His one day, passed down.

After they’d finished, they sat under a shade tree. John grabbed a beer from the cooler, twisted off the cap in my hem with a _tsst_. Handed the first sip to his too-young son just like he handed _me_ over, pulled off grown-up flesh, grease stains and grunge. Thrust into sixth-grade hands like a sawed-off shotgun.

“Got that at Zep’s last U.S. tour,” said John, prodding me twice. “Take care of it for me, will you?”

Dean held me in his arms and nodded, green eyes full of Dad’s pride. He wore me to bed that night, a sweet smile on his face.

I saw the countryside from the passenger’s seat, me and Dean, weaving through highways on trips to Pastor Jim’s and Uncle Bobby’s, shattered stained glass and junkyard jungle gyms. Let the mild May wind rush through my sleeves, hanging out Impala windows after dark. Travelling riverside blues with an amulet tucked inside my neck.

I was there, layered under flannel, for Dean’s first kiss, careful and caught unawares in Sonny’s home for teenaged boys. Later, I would spend more time on bedroom floors than between the sheets, lying cold as Dean found love across the lower forty-eight.

Through the year I’ve hidden under hunting jackets, muffled beneath button-ups and obscuring butts of guns in waistbands. Through too many close calls, careless mistakes, bravado masked as courage. Where blood and bile cling to me like skunk musk.

But I always long for that first day of spring, when leather and flannel give way to worn cotton, soft breezes on bare arms. When I can breathe again and rejoice in boyish romps — wrestles, tussles, tugs. When I am stretched, arms to the sky, as sun showers drizzle my threads, rain-soaked seams against warm bodies, tongues stuck out to catch the rain. Draped over the bedpost to dry as they snuggle under covers, listening to cloudbursts sprinkle the pavement.

Growing boys and growing bones.

~~~

The day I felt most loved was May 2, 1996.

On Sam’s thirteenth birthday, Dean brought home a convenience store cake with shoplifted candles. I’d been wrapped in old newspaper all afternoon, tied up with twine, when at last came the voice of the youngest Winchester.

“Is this for me?”

I heard Dean smile. “Happy Birthday, Sammy.”

_Rip, tear, crackle, crackle, crunch._

New hands cradled me. Soft hands, sweet hands. Long fingers and bony knuckles. The next thing I felt was the beautiful press of chests, the ironing of my threads, as my boys brother-hugged. I relaxed, divine and pliable in their arms.

I’ve been with Sam ever since. He’s grown into me, long hair and longer limbs. Velveteen and well-fitted. I was with him when he lay in long grass, dewy pollen smudging at my sleeves. Fourteen years old and plucking petals from daisies in bloom.

“She loves me. She loves me not.”

I’ve been with him through lonely car rides and lonelier motel nights. Tears wetting me in the dark, left behind in empty rooms. In introspection and overthinking. Quiet observation, calculation, rebellion. When he realized he wanted out. Wanted more.

Like Stanford acceptance letters, I was nearly ripped to shreds the spring he turned eighteen. John grabbed me by the neck so rough my stitches stretched. Shoved Sam against the wall, where I snagged on a nail and sliced open. Came apart at the seams, as torn and in tatters as three Winchester hearts.

But always sewn up again.

~~~

I’ve been washed one-hundred and twenty times. In coin-operated machines, with dryer sheets and drier lint. In the sink with mini hand soaps that smelled like bubble-gum, then hung over the shower curtain to dry. In the Lawrence House, with fabric softener and folded with care.

I’ve been with my boys through growing pains, stretched over sharp shoulder blades. In boyhood embroidery, weaving through Robert Plant cassettes and John Bonham boxed sets. I’m a threadbare through-line. The very fabric of their lives.

But most of all, I represent the ritual — the passing down from man to man. A cotton keepsake across state lines and monsters of the week. Something familiar, something cherished, something _theirs_.

The only clothes my boys keep are hand-me-downs. My stretched out sleeves with holes in the armpit, with fraying fibres and soda stains. I’m used and abused, well-worn, I know. But they cling to me like they once clung to each other, when shared clothes under shared sheets became shared hearts.

They’ll never outgrow me as long as they live.


End file.
